‘You did. I wanted you to be here, to take over. I knew you had it in you, I just didn’t know if you’d follow through,’ he said, watching her face closely, waiting for a reaction, a flicker of resistance. But nothing came. He was right, she had always been her father’s daughter, but it was the cumulative effect of life that had brought her to this place. She could no longer sit back and ignore the equal expectations society put upon people from unequal circumstances. Seeing the blood of her people run in the city had awakened something in her. She was the Khan. She always had been. It had just been a matter of time.

‘Show me,’ said Jia, pointing at Idris’s book. ‘Show me what you think we should do.’

He handed it over and she began leafing through the pages.

‘You’re talking tech but staying old school?’ said Malik, nodding at the pencil and notebook.

‘It’s easier to shred than an iPad,’ Idris answered. ‘And it’s just reminders. Most of it is up here,’ he said, tapping his head. Idris had an eidetic memory; he remembered everything. ‘The old men are tired. It’s time to step up and take charge, Jia. Once we are settled we can convince them to retire and bring our people out of the dark ages.’

Jia listened to Idris, his words genuine, grounded in loyalty and sound judgement. She trusted him more than she trusted anyone else. Her mother, the old man at the funeral and now Idris – they were all asking her for the same thing.

‘Nowak will be planning to take out more members of the Jirga. He won’t stop with Akbar Khan,’ said Idris. ‘He wants to throw the city into chaos before taking over the operations and then tearing them apart.’

Jia watched her cousins. They had grown up here. Their father, and hers, had worked hard to make it their own. The blood of Bazigh Khan’s family had been spilled on the streets. Her brothers had offered up their innocence and their lives at the altar of Pukhtunwali. Now Nowak had decided to play with the lives of the city’s children and women, as if they were worthless. Somewhere along the way, Akbar Khan had become the voice in her head: These are not the ways of honourable men. Make them pay.